Wildfire
by OpheliacAngel
Summary: The realization burned faster and surer and brighter than any fire. Consumed every scrap of affection Marty believed Merrill had thrown purposefully his way. Nothing left. Written for the May Amnesty Challenge for h/c bingo and combining these prompts: loss of voice, trust issues and comfort food or item/feeding someone.


**Title:** Wildfire

 **Author:** OpheliacAngel

 **Pairing:** Merrill/Marty

 **Genres:** Romance/Angst

 **Rating:** Teen

 **Summary:** The realization burned faster and surer and brighter than any fire. Consumed every scrap of affection Marty believed Merrill had thrown purposefully his way. Nothing left.

 **A/N:** Written for the May Amnesty Challenge for h/c_bingo and combining these prompts: loss of voice, trust issues and comfort food or item/feeding someone.

* * *

Merrill's been a little _off_ since this unexpected development.

Okay, so it's not the first thing Marty notices. No, the very first thing that comes to mind is how he gets up one fine morning, eagerly anticipating his morning snack, and when he goes up to the others to brighten their day with some much beloved snark, finds that absolutely no sound comes out of his wide-open mouth. Yep, _so_ not his morning.

While he didn't expect Merrill to laugh first, since that honor was reserved for one Essie Rachimova, who took the sheerest delight out of anything not going Marty's way, he did expect Merrill to laugh once it wore off that Marty wasn't faking this, wouldn't fake this, needed to be able to talk or he wasn't technically _Marty_. Marty the chatterbox, Marty who couldn't function if he couldn't talk, could only think and stress and panic and none of those things were his _thing._ Annoying, smart-ass vampire here.

But no snickering came from Merrill's direction, not even when her beloved Drew joined in with Essie and the young, yet ridiculously athletic, deranged puppy she kept on a leash. And Drew hadn't snickered or laughed or did anything but brood in a corner ever since Sherry died and Dylan left. All the girls in his life gone except the only one who was head over heels for him, the one who was supposedly his One, if _that_ thing even existed, which Marty sure wasn't betting anything on. All those girls….

When Marty couldn't even get _one_ girl, let alone the girl he wanted. The girl he _never knew_ he wanted until jealousy he absolutely knew was petty started to play a part, but still…

Still, Merrill studied him, managing to drink her blood bag delicately even after Marty got the good sense enough to close his mouth, so he wouldn't keep making a complete fool of himself trying to make some sound come out. He shot her an annoyed look which probably came across as more panicked than anything, though Merrill only shrugged and continued to sip, and Marty purposefully avoided her eye-line after that. He tuned out the room after a few minutes, figuring it would preserve his pride better than running away from civilization would. Truth was, there was no telling what Merrill would do after she finished her bag. Maybe she was drinking to prevent herself from doubling over from pent-up laughter, maybe it was only a matter of time before his ears tuned back in and he heard laughter and jibes that weren't coming from Drew, Essie or Karl.

And Marty couldn't have that. Not when he was so uncharacteristically raw from Merrill draining him barely a month prior. A month was a long time, too long, but her soft, blood-soaked lips latched onto his neck in dreams and in nightmares, and her hair falling across his face like a cool shadow, obscuring his eyesight, made him never want to see anything ever again.

He never looked back at her. He eventually swept out of the room, having downed his bag quickly and without fail, barely tasting the cool substance as it coated his tongue and as he tipped his head up and threw it back. He planned to spend the rest of the once bright day in his coffin, sulking, but the remembrance of summer break, aka no pesky day students pulling all-nighters, led him through Professor Murdoch's office and into the lobby. The good Professor glanced up as Marty moved quickly through the room, but couldn't manage to say anything before the vampire was gone.

Marty felt sorta bad for not jabbing at Murdoch a little, or even acknowledging him, but once he remembered the loss of his voice he realized it was for the better. Common sense told him to talk to Murdoch to see what the cause of his sudden muteness could be, but he couldn't stand the possibility of anyone else's judgment right now, not even to solve this problem.

The blood formed like a clump of something vile in the pit of his stomach. Marty curled up on the couch and couldn't even bring himself to light a candle, not wanting to be seen in the darkness made even darker by the heavy drapes obscuring the night outside the windows. He thought that it would help that Merrill hadn't laughed, hadn't smiled, hadn't said a word, but it was even more unnerving that she had stood there, stared and shrugged, as if nothing in the world affected her anymore.

As if nothing Marty did or said affected her anymore, as if she didn't care about him, about anything having to do with him.

The realization burned faster and surer and brighter than any fire. Consumed every scrap of affection Marty believed Merrill had thrown purposefully his way. Nothing left.

At least she had strayed from Drew. Yet the truth was: Marty couldn't trust her not to step back into that doomed cycle of pretty fantasies and ultimate rejection. He couldn't trust her to stand by Marty as he had stood by her, nearly given his life in exchange for hers, depended on her to keep him here and keep him sane.

He couldn't take much more of this, of this ridicule, the hatred, the stares. He knew his constant tampering with the others' love lives and the torments he reserved especially for them weren't helping matters any, but he fit into a certain mold, and if he wasn't that then what was he?

Murdoch came first, lingering in the heavy, claustrophobic darkness. The darkness had never felt like this before: so confining, like his enemy. It had always felt safe, like a true friend, but it wasn't the Professor that was tainting it. Marty didn't look up, didn't move, thought about lighting a candle but didn't even though Murdoch wasn't human and could maybe see just as good as Marty could. The Professor stood there, nonjudgmental, but Marty could already feel the pressure building.

None of them got it. They thought he thought everything was a game, but Marty knew the world wasn't a game, the Experiment wasn't a game, his life wasn't a _game._

"Merrill tells me we have a problem on our hands."

 _We._ Not just Marty's problem. Funny choice of words.

Marty swallowed. He glanced up and Murdoch took that as his cue to step forward. He didn't step forward again, didn't sit on the couch or sigh softly like Marty knew he did when he was annoyed with him. Marty felt betrayed by Merrill, who was probably off joking about this new turn of events with Drew downstairs. He turned his head away and closed his eyes for no more than a second, shaking his thoughts clear.

It wouldn't do to be transparent, couldn't be analyzed by Murdoch.

The Professor sighed and Marty jumped, nearly leaping right out of his own skin. Murdoch's brow furrowed and he sat down, plenty of space between the two of them on the couch but Marty didn't relax, not even when Murdoch started talking. "She was worried," he said, as if to reassure, but it wasn't reassuring Marty. Maybe the Professor but not Marty. "And frankly, so am I."

 _So this isn_ _'t some whole just-desserts thing, huh? No ploy to get me to shut up and turn my homework in on time, doc?_

 _And -_ Marty wondered - _worried about what? Me? Whatever this is? No need to worry about little ol_ _' me, I'm just peachy._

He opened his mouth but closed it forcefully before straining to get out words he knew would never escape. Not that looking like a fool in front of Murdoch could be any worse than what he'd already gotten. He was pretty sure the guy couldn't read minds, but that didn't stop Marty from believing he knew exactly what was on Marty's mind, which was pretty freaky, knew his fears and his doubts and the encroaching panic that would tear him limb from limb soon enough.

Murdoch's brow furrowed again. "Why would we punish you?" Oh, but the Professor couldn't stop there, not even when Marty shot a glare in his direction. "Marty, you have shown exceptional improvement in the past semester. The Elders are ecstatic with your progress, if they were displeased or keen on punishment then you would know. Marty," he scooted forward and Marty tensed, still not turning in his direction. Murdoch laid an uncharacteristic hand on his knee, continuing in hushed tones despite there being no one else in the room but them. "Marty, I don't want you to worry about this."

 _Fat chance of that. Can_ _'t exactly talk here. What the hell am I if I can't talk? Nothing, that's what._

"You will recall how keen Merrill is on mysteries, and how gifted she is at solving them. I have found that if you two put your heads together, then anything can be accomplished. Of course, I speak from personal experience, from once being on the receiving end of these accomplishments." _From when the ghost of your past was terrorizing you_ , yeah, Marty remembered that, remembered just how well he and Merrill had worked together. Not that it mattered to her. She probably forgot about the whole thing by now.

Marty was broken out of his thoughts when the Professor squeezed his knee and smiled, content to serve him up a reminder and leave him be.

The vampire may have recalled, but as far as he was concerned Merrill didn't care and Merrill wasn't on his side and it didn't matter, because even if Marty did talk again he would never get up the guts to tell her how much he loved her, every piece of her that he was granted the luxury of laying eyes upon, all the way from her gorgeous, glowering eyes to the very tips of her porcelain toes.

* * *

Merrill was sitting on the floor next to his coffin, legs tucked neatly underneath her, eyes glued to some thick, hard-bound book that hurt Marty's eyes even though he wasn't reading it. That was Merrill, who would never dare sit in someone else's coffin like Essie, but it was also more like Merrill to hover outside the door and knock, to glare at him and toss him 'I told you sos' and 'you know betters'.

But when Merrill glanced up he wasn't ready. Nothing could have prepared him for the mix of determination and pity in her eyes, piercing him like an arrow to the heart. Sure, overused example, but Marty could swear on hearing the slight tear of fabric and the sensation of his insides becoming mincemeat to Merrill's deepest and darkest desires. Hell, it had taken Marty forever to realize Merrill had deep, dark and deadly desires in the first place.

Merrill sat up as Marty lingered in the doorway, smoothing out her skirt with just the slightest bit of doubt and nervousness and it was like everything laid out for him, everything he ever wanted and never knew he needed, no pretty red bow required. She was so beautiful exactly how she sat, her posture delicate yet dangerous, ready to pounce. It struck Marty more than ever before how unpredictable she had become, how bold and sure and _powerful_ , titanium and blood and razors. It spoke volumes to how she could skewer them all on the ends of her fingers if she had the heart to work at full capacity. No matter her intentions, Marty wanted a camera to document her forever. To show the world that she was his even if she was the furthest thing from it. Just the illusion becoming real, life imitating art, just the idea _alone_ that she remembered he _existed._

His eyes wandered, curious as he was, and he noticed the blood bag held absentmindedly in her hand, off to the side. It must have been Marty's second bag because she'd already filled up on her rations that morning, and for some reason this boldness, this slap in the face made him feel warm and turned on like the flick of a switch, sure that he would never _ever_ figure her out and strangely comfortable in that knowledge.

She took a sip from the half-empty bag, making it look bewilderingly seductive, and patted the space beside her.

Marty followed as if pulled by some force, the force being none other than Merrill. Wrapped around her little finger that he was, she hardly needed to beckon or beg or do more than blink or simply exist. He pulled his long legs under him before settling on sitting cross-legged, fingers intentionally brushing against Merrill's as she handed him the bag but never quite released it.

"Want to share?"

Marty opened his mouth, frustration at remembering the curse nearly making him push Merrill away. Yet something had consumed her and it was consuming him too, chasing away the lingering chill of rejection, the encroaching tendrils of a desire to run like a lovestruck fool and never look back. Maybe if he closed his eyes then they would really be one, just for a second, just for as long as it took for the real world to settle back in around him like a blanket intent to suffocate. Merrill's hand shot forward and cupped his face even quicker than he could anticipate, fingernails digging into his sunken cheek, a faint though powerful flicker of gold in her eyes that betrayed every little thing she could no longer hide.

If he wasn't already _literally_ speechless, then that would have done it.

He swallowed convulsively, stopping even that when Merrill quirked her head. He opened his mouth out of habit but then immediately snapped it shut, teeth clicking briefly at the force of it and he barely held back a cringe. Everything was too loud, even this moment as soft as it was. And Marty finally, for the first time in his life, understood the pull. If Merrill could feel it too then she should say something, _would_ say something, but this wasn't _all_ the Merrill that Marty knew anymore.

No one had just _One._

No one had Merrill either.

Her soft, naked of polish fingers found his lips after drawing minimal blood from his cheek, her imprint throbbing on his skin though only having to do with her closeness. His lips must have parted in confusion, in mid-thought, remembering he couldn't speak just in the background, there to puncture him if he slipped up, for she pressed his lips closed with her long fingers, skin so pale and fragile and flawless. She smiled as she stared at his mouth, smiled as if absentmindedly because clearly, she forgot where she is. That smile was the one meant for Drew, _not_ for Marty.

When she met his eyes he felt like everything set in stone had slipped away. He hadn't gotten a warning, he reasoned, every instinct in Marty telling him to pull away purely for self-preservation, to trust in what he knew beyond a doubt, what he had already fought against for too long.

But it was water falling through his fingers, evaporating as it met the Earth, leaving Marty right back where he started: a blank slate with longing already seeping into every patch, every crevice, every place he trembled and tried to crawl away and couldn't _hurt_ , wouldn't _survive._

"Now I finally get to say what I want to say."

 _And oh_ _… I can't say anything._

 _Roll with it roll with it roll with it_

The depth of her eyes and the cool shadow of her hair, flowing down like a benign waterfall, lured him in. She had hid behind that hair for so long and now it was like she had woken up inside, a dark shadow no longer needing to hide from the light but _owning it_ , a nearly hidden shadow crawling over him, finally understanding what her purpose was. And if he could fall into her then, fine, he didn't need to worry about anything else. He could write, well enough anyway. He would just write everything down from now on. He would just….

"Typical, Marty," she said in that enchanting accent of hers. She peered up at him, using that former shyness as a weapon, trying to break down his crumbling barriers for good for whatever reason. "Even when you can't talk I can still hear you thinking a mile a minute."

She pressed the blood bag to his mouth, straw worming its way in between his lips and he sipped as if he were drawing her own blood into his being, as if latching onto her vein like thirst was the only thing he understood. Merrill held the bag even as it neared its inevitable end, as if Marty was just as incapable of holding it as he was talking. The warm liquid served as a heady balm to his cold, slithering doubts. If this was Merrill's way of solving the case then it was… unexpected, but definitely _not_ unwelcome.

 _Is she at the ploy now to get Drew jealous? Catch us making out so he_ _'ll pull us off each other and finally confess his love? I would gag if I could._

"You've been so distant lately, Marty. Haven't given me a chance to…."

He offered her the blood that hadn't quite trickled down his throat, kissed her so he could pull her into him. Merrill was a glowing angel above him as she pressed him down into the floor, wildfire vibrating under her skin and injecting itself into his veins. She was the sun, light incarnate, shaking like the very earth was moving through her and Marty trembled with her, feeding her as she fed him.

"Mer…."

One breath, one gasp.

Some things were better left unsaid.

 **FIN**


End file.
